Pillow Talk
by divine one
Summary: Vignette involving a little chat between Sophie and Eliot. Technically an epilogue to Windows and Doors, but it's probably not necessary to read that fic first to follow this one. Established relationship. A bit of s e x. Sophie/Eliot


Disclaimer on profile.

I've been suffering from writer's block for a few weeks... here's something i've been playing with... hope it doesn't suck :)

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He surged forward one last time before collapsing on top of her.

She was lying on her stomach, her hands slowly releasing their grip on the sheets - his weight pressing against her frame - and she gave a small hiss of pleasure as he shifted slightly, still anchored in her, and brushed his lips against her ear. "Marry me."

"Mmm, yes." Then her orgasm overloaded brain realized what he'd said. "Wait, what?"

"Marry me."

She lifted her head and gave a fair imitation of one of his patented growls. "Now? You're asking me now? After we've just... just -"

"Fucked? Had sex?" His voice lowered, "Made love?"

He'd been planning to ask her to marry him for months – since before the twins were born. He'd thought - a lot - about asking her... the 'when's', 'wheres', and 'hows' of proposing to Sophie. He'd considered taking her to the Met, or to the restaurant at the Chateau Marmont. He'd imagined how he would drop to his knee, present her with a ring, and give a silent prayer that she'd be willin' to accept his offer.

He'd never, however, considered asking her while they were in bed... right after having what could be labeled the best sex of his life. (Of course, every time he had sex with Sophie, it was the best sex of his life.)

"I have you more or less trapped – so you can't run away from me," he felt an involuntary flutter of her walls around his still half-hard cock, "you've had a few orgasms in a row," she tightened around him again and his breath hitched. "So you have endorphins runnin' around in your body... Now seems as good a time as any to wrangle an answer from you."

"So because you have me... incapacitated, and... and satiated... you think you can just throw that kind of question out at me?"

He chuckled lightly. "Well, you have to admit, you're a helluva lot easier to _convince _when your pants are down."

"I'm going to take offense to that statement when I regain feeling in my legs."

He chuckled again. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I get easier to convince about things when your pants are down too."

She grinned. "Up." She wiggled her body beneath him and he reluctantly separated from her. Rolling onto his back with a groan, he smiled as Sophie rolled off of her tummy and turned and curved her frame against his – her head on his chest.

"You do realize that if I say yes, we will have a horrible story to tell."

Reaching down he pulled the sheet up across Sophie's body before settling his hand on her arm. "A horrible story?"

"The girls hit 14 or 15 years old and they turn to us and ask, 'So how did Daddy propose?' If I accept your offer, our answer would have to be: 'Daddy had just given me my third body-quaking orgasm of the night and he just 'popped the question''." She lifted her chin and peered at him. "That's a horrible proposal story to share with our daughters."

"We could lie."

"Eliot."

"What? I say we lie to the girls about as much as we can, for as long as we can. Whatever it takes to maintain the parent-child balance of power."

"Oh, honey, I think we lost all of our power the minute they were born."

"Even more reason to lie. I'm not proud. I'll do whatever I need to do to maintain the _illusion_ of having power." He tucked her closer, "So I ask again: Sophie Devereaux, will you marry me?"

She shifted her leg over his thigh and gave a small yawn, "If you ask me again tomorrow morning, after I've had my shower, and if you present me with the ring you have hidden in the pantry, I'll say yes."

"You know about the ring?" He'd carried the damn thing around in his jacket pocket for two weeks before finding the perfect – or so he thought – hiding place in the house. The ring had sat there in the pantry for three months, hiding behind the various bottles of olive oil and grape seed oil that he kept on hand. He'd check on the ring every once and a while - when the urge to ask Soph to marry him became particularly strong – he'd look at it, maybe pull it out and click the box open, before shuttin' it and putting it back and carefully rearranging the oil bottles around it; secure in the knowledge that the ring was safe, secure, and a secret.

Or not.

"Wait." He shook his head to clear his surprise of her awareness of the existence of the ring. "Did you just say yes?"

It was her turn to laugh. "I just said I **will** say yes. Tomorrow morning."

"Really?"

"Mmm hmmm."

He made a decision. "We're gettin' up at 5am."

"Eliot, that's five hours from now! And we don't have to be anywhere until 10!"

"We're gettin' up at 5." He smirked as he gave her another option. "Unless you wanna aim for 430?"

She gave a semi-mock shudder. "No, no. 5am it is."

"So... when we get married, will you be 'Devereaux', 'Devereaux-Spencer', 'Spencer', or should we go with a whole new last name for the both of us?"

"If I don't get my beauty sleep, I won't be awake to say 'yes' when you ask me, and then there will be no need for either of us to do anything with our last names."

"Fine. Go to sleep. 5:15am and I'm hunting you down, wherever you are in the house, clothed or unclothed, showered or unshowered, awake or asleep, and I'm askin' you again... with the damn ring in hand. Be prepared to say 'yes'."

She smiled against his chest, "Yes, Sir."


End file.
